


Domestic Ultron

by redtribution



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AM - Freeform, Domestic!Ultron, Gen, I, POV Second Person, Time - Freeform, doing, my, what, with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtribution/pseuds/redtribution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, you're living with an eight-foot robot, who cannot crack eggs for the life of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Ultron

A crash reverberates in your ears, jolting you from sleep. Your eyes fly open, and you sit up straight in bed, clutching the duvet to your chest. You look left to right frantically, searching for an intruder. From the soft light of dawn filtering around the edges of the master bedroom curtains, you see that you are alone. The crash must have come from downstairs.

You slip out of bed and into the robe you keep hung over a bedpost. You look around for a weapon, something to defend yourself against whatever intruder lurks downstairs. You wish you hadn’t left your phone charging in the kitchen last night, but it’s too late to go back now. Snatching a five pound dumbbell from the ground, you begin the journey downstairs with quiet feet.

You descend the stairs without incident, muscles tense. At the bottom of the stairs, you pause. On the other side of the wall next to you lays the kitchen. You hear shuffling noises mixed with muted cursing. The voice is sounds incredibly familiar…

In one swift movement, you hop down the last two stairs and flick on the kitchen light. “Ron?” You say.

Ultron whirls around at the sound of your voice. He’s standing just to the side of the stove, and next to him you can see a mess of broken eggs and your favorite frying pan, the handle broken off. You know the look you’re giving him is bewildered, but you can’t help it.

Though he is an eight-foot robot of mass destruction, Ultron somehow manages to look incredibly small in his sheepishness. His hands are concealed behind his back, and he’s planted firmly in front of the bit of counter next to the stove. You walk a few steps forward, eyeing him.

“Ron, what happened?”

Ultron clears his throat, though the habit is purely a learned one. His low voice echoes mechanically around the kitchen. “You’re going to need a new counter.”

You stop. “A new _counter?”_

Ultron lifts his chin, his proud mask falling into place. “It isn’t _my_ fault. I was simply trying to make you breakfast. I know you like your eggs with bits of bacon in them, but I couldn’t…” he looks small again. “I couldn’t crack them. My hands break the shells when I try.”

You don’t reply; you can’t. Instead, you walk to his side and nudge him out of the way, knowing full well what you will find behind him. He moves aside, despite the fact that his strength is far beyond your own. The sight before you is precisely as you expected. A deep crack runs from the edge of the countertop to the back of it, splitting the granite in two.

“I don’t understand why you like eggs,” Ultron begins. “Chickens are among the most poorly-treated creatures on the planet, and it’s all thanks to humans. Did you know that most egg-laying chickens aren’t allowed enough room to stand up, spread their wings or even preen or bathe themselves? It’s ludicrous, really. Humans are the root of all evil on planet earth. _This_ is why I wanted to take over the world—”

 “Because of chickens?” You interrupt him.

You crane your neck to look at his face, two and a half feet above your own. He glances side to side, obviously considering which answer would be less damaging to his pride. “Yes,” he decides. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be angry with me about the countertop. Alright, I was angry and I smashed it, but you come from the most destructive species on the planet—”

You can’t help yourself, you laugh. His sheepishness, his mask of confidence, his defensiveness; the whole situation is darling. He looks hurt for a moment before you wrap your arms around his enormous torso.

“Alright, I get it: you’re sorry,” you say, leaning your head against his cold metal shell.

Ultron sags. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

You disentangle yourself from him and walk to the sink. You wet a rag and toss it to him. He catches it deftly in his enormous hand.

“Alright, you: Let’s get cleaning.”


End file.
